“It goes with the territory.” The wine tasted like liquid gold.
“Nonetheless, you worry me, Lieutenant.”
“You worry too easily.”
“I love you.”
It flustered her to hear him say it in that lovely voice that hinted of Irish mists, to know that somehow, incredibly, it was true. Since she had no answer to give him, she frowned into her wine.
He said nothing until he’d managed to tuck away irritation at her lack of response. “Can you tell me what happened to Cicely Towers?”
“You knew her,” Eve countered.
“Not well. A light social acquaintance, some business dealings, mostly through her former husband.” He sipped his wine, watched the steam rise from her bath. “I found her admirable, wise, and dangerous.”
Eve scooted up until the water lapped at the tops of her breasts. “Dangerous? To you?”
“Not directly.” His lips curved slightly before he brought the wine to them. “To nefarious practices, to illegalities, small and large, to the criminal mind. She was very like you in that respect. It’s fortunate I’ve mended my ways.”
Eve wasn’t entirely sure of that, but she let it slide. “Through your business dealings and your light social acquaintance, are you aware of anyone who would have wanted her dead?”
He sipped again, more deeply. “Is this an interrogation, Lieutenant?”
It was the smile in his voice that rubbed her wrong. “It can be,” she said shortly.
“As you like.” He rose, set his glass aside, and began to unbutton his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting into the swim, so to speak.” He tossed the shirt aside, unhooked his trousers. “If I’m going to be questioned by a naked cop, in my own tub, the least I can do is join her.”
“Damn it, Roarke, this is murder.”
He winced as the hot water all but scal
ded him. “You’re telling me.” He faced her across the sea of froth. “What is it in me that is so perverse it thrives on ruffling you? And,” he continued before she could give him her short, pithy opinion, “what is it about you that pulls at me, even when you’re sitting there with an invisible badge pinned to your lovely breast?”
He skimmed a hand under, along her ankle, her calf, and to the spot on the back of her knee he knew weakened her. “I want you,” he murmured. “Right now.”
Her hand had gone limp on the stem of her glass before she managed to shift away. “Talk to me about Cicely Towers.”
Philosophically, Roarke settled back. He had no intention of letting her out of the tub until he was finished, so he could afford patience. “She, her former husband, and George Hammett, were on the board of one of my divisions. Mercury, named after the god of speed. Import-export for the most part. Shipping, deliveries, rapid transports.”
“I know what Mercury is,” she said testily, dealing with the annoyance of not knowing that, too, was one of his companies.
“It was a poorly organized and failing business when I acquired it about ten years ago. Marco Angelini, Cicely’s ex, invested, as did she. They were still married at the time, I believe, or just divorced. The termination of their marriage, apparently, was as amicable as such things can be. Hammett was also an investor. I don’t believe he became personally involved with Cicely until some years later.”
“And this triangle, Angelini, Towers, Hammett, was that amicable, too?”
“It seemed so.” Idly he tapped a tile. When it flipped open to reveal the hidden panel, he programmed in music. Something low and weepy. “If you’re worried about my end of it, it was business, and successful business at that.”
“How much smuggling does Mercury do?”
His grin flashed. “Really, Lieutenant.”
Water lapped as she sat forward. “Don’t play games with me, Roarke.”
“Eve, it’s my fondest wish to do just that.”